


Brine

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Collars, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, Light Choking, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, light pet play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 11:22:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: When Seb's hurt on a job, Jim takes him on a seaside holiday.Mormor. H/C PWP. D/s themes. Collaring and light pet play. For 2019 Dick-or-Treat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This is longer version of the 500-word [Salty Dog](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/38295125).

No one saw the well-dressed shadow slip between the cargo freight. No one heard the Savile Row shadow enter a warehouse unit and halt before a tank. No one watched as the dapper phantom unfurled a handkerchief and unscrewed a lid. No one was overwhelmed by petrol fumes, and no one heard the whisper.

“Well done, Sebbie. Let’s go home.”

* * *

Seb coughed. Another square of cambric came away sodden with blood.

Jim huffed and dropped his mobile on the table between them.

“That’s it. You’re going to a doctor, Seb.”

“I’m fine, Boss. I just need a day or two of rest.”

“You’re not fine, and you’ve had a day or two of rest. You’re getting worse,” Jim grimaced, “and I’m running out of handkerchiefs.”

“It’d be suicide, Boss. Any doctor worth seeing will ask questions, questions that I can’t answer without being arrested and put away for a very long time. I have to keep an extremely low profile until this business blows over.”

Jim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There might be one doctor who won’t ask questions.”

“Who?”

* * *

John Watson sighed wearily.

“You know, when I practiced medicine in a warzone, it was because I _chose_ it. I don’t really miss the battlefield when it shows up on my professional doorstep without an appointment. And, really, Colonel Moran, I’m going to have to ask you once more to lower your weapon.”

Three weapons were drawn in the tiny consultation room.

One was aimed at John. One was aimed at Jim. One was aimed at Sherlock.

“There are far too many people here, too, but I don’t suppose anyone’s considering, you know, _waiting_ in the _waiting_ room,” grumbled John, with another weary sigh and eye-roll. “Please, Colonel, this is ridiculous. I need to examine you. Lower your weapon.”

Seb sniffed derisively, but then was assaulted by a coughing fit so violent that he had no alternative but to comply with John’s request.

“Thank you,” said John. “Now, let’s see if you’re as bad as you sound.”

* * *

Seb woke to a scent.

Sharp, but pleasant. Crisp.

Brine.

He had the vague notion of the passage of time, bites of food, pills swallowed, loo, surfacing and then sinking back into oblivion.

Without opening his eyes, Seb did an inventory: flexing and relaxing his muscles one by one, making minute movements, checking his breathing and his cognition.

Conclusion? He wasn’t in acute pain. He wasn’t bound. He’d been drugged, though, and moved.

He listened.

The sea. Waves. Birds.

He risked cracking one eye open.

Beyond a pair of French doors flung wide, a figure was seated at a table. Seb recognised the back of the head. He’d recognise it anywhere and in any condition, his or the head’s.

“Boss?”

The single utterance seemed to deplete Seb. His eyelids grew heavy and fell of their own accord. He sank.

Bare feet shuffled. Then a hand rested between Seb’s shoulder blades.

“Welcome back, Tiger.”

With effort and assistance, Seb sat up. After a fit of coughing, he threw an arm across his bare chest and scratched his back and looked about.

“Nice,” he said of the simple, spacious bedroom.

“Glad you like it. Comfortable, but not too fancy, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Seb didn’t do ‘fancy.’ He looked down and frowned.

He was wearing pants, but at his neck there was something new, a curious tightness. He ran his fingertips along the leather strip to the buckle.

“Boss?”

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Watson didn’t say to collar me, Boss.”

“He said you needed to rest your lungs, along with the CT scan, which was clear, and the antibiotics.”

Seb’s eyes took in the scene outside the French doors. “Sea cure?”

“What can I say? I’m old-fashioned. Be glad it’s not leeches. Remember Crosby?”

Seb’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t Brighton.”

“After the last job? No, you were right: we needed to disappear for a bit. The Mediterranean. Our own dot on the map. Perfect seclusion but it means you’ll have to put up with my cooking.”

Seb smiled as his fingers found a metal ring.

“Lead, Boss?”

“For your own good, Sebbie. And a reminder.”

“That I’m yours?”

“And that I need to take good care of what’s mine.”

* * *

The first day Seb sat on the beach, watching the waves and thinking of nothing. The second was the much the same, but he managed to rouse himself enough by afternoon to wade into the receding tide. By the third day, he felt up to a swim.

He emerged from the surf feeling better than he had since the job.

He felt strong. Reborn, even.

There might be something to this sea cure notion.

He plopped down on the chair and wiped his face and chest with a towel. He inhaled deeply and was instantly awash in the blissful relief of the convalescent. It no longer hurt to breathe.

Suddenly, the bright sun was eclipsed.

Seb looked up and smiled.

Jim removed his sunglasses. Appraising green-eyes danced about Seb’s face and torso. Then Jim nodded and let one corner of his mouth lift.

One of Jim’s hands, Seb noted, was sunk in a pocket of loose, beige, linen trousers, the other held a coil of braid.

Jim leaned down.

_Click!_

“Let’s go for a walk, pet.”

* * *

A casual observer might have thought the scene strange: a tall, hulking, slightly sun-tanned, tattooed figure in loose swimming trunks being led down the beach by a shorter, paler, smaller companion wearing a natty three-piece Hugo Boss suit and carrying a parasol.

But there were no casual observers. There were no observers at all.

They reached a huge slab of rock in which was affixed a heavy iron ring for tethering horses. Jim turned and leaned back against the stone wall beside the ring. His only concession to the warmth of the day and the nature of their surroundings was that he was barefoot, and the cuffs of the Savile Row trousers were rolled to mid-calf. He spread his legs a bit and said,

“Sit. Heel.”

Seb fell to his knees. His prick stirred. He was ready for this. More than ready.

As Jim’s hands were full, parasol in one, Seb’s lead in the other, he gave a nod toward his waist.

Seb leaned forward and began to nuzzle at the front of Jim’s trousers. With his nose and lips, he outlined the hardening bulge. The shade of the parasol fell upon them as Seb pressed dry kisses to the linen, purposefully prolonging the foreplay, purposefully exhausting Jim’s patience.

Seb’s blood warmed when the tug on the lead came.

It was perfect. Not nearly as hard as it would be under normal circumstances, but firm, beautifully, deliciously, marvelously firm and unyielding.

This was why he let Jim control him. Because Jim knew how. Jim knew exactly where to apply the pressure, exactly how much pressure to apply. That’s why Seb killed for Jim and whored for him and loved him beyond reason, and that was why Seb freed Jim’s erection and took the hard prick in his mouth at once.

Jim’s exhale, a soft staccato release of air that might have been mistaken for a sea breeze, was all the encouragement Seb needed to set about sucking and bobbing. Soon, he was so aroused by the taste and smell and feel of Jim in his mouth that the urge to take himself in hand overwhelmed him. He felt dizzy and tightened his grip on the bundle of shirttails and waistcoat and suit jacket to remain upright.  

“Not yet, Tiger.”

Seb hung on for dear life while he ran his tongue around Jim’s shaft. Teased it, caressed it, laved it. He pulled back a little and traced the slit. He outlined the ridges and veins.

Jim hummed. “That’s right, Sebbie. Make love to it. Show me how much you missed me.”

As Seb continued, he sensed the return of the sun on his back and felt a curious prodding at the waistband of his trunks. The fabric was being pushed down. When the top half of Seb’s arse was exposed, Jim tut-tutted.

“I want no tan lines anywhere by the time we leave.”

Seb couldn’t help it. He grinned and snickered around Jim’s prick, then finding his head much clearer, resumed his bobbing and sucking of earlier.

“Yeah, that’s right. Back to business, you tart.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Seb saw the parasol fall to the sand. He also felt Jim coil the lead once more around his fist. Then there was a hand on the back of Seb’s head and another holding the lead tight.

“Stay.”

Seb stilled and let Jim fuck his mouth.

It felt good to be used, to feel Jim’s violence, if only in a very small, diluted dose. It felt good to sink into that place, that good place, to find it again and know for certain it was still there. And he was still Jim’s.

Jim came with no more sound than a hard sniff.

Seb pulled off and spit on the ground.

“Good boy, Sebbie. Very good.”

Jim caressed Seb’s cheek with one hand, then cupped his jaw and let his thumb brush back and forth along Seb’s bottom lip. They held each other’s gaze for a while, Jim positively drinking Sebbie in like a man dying of thirst.

Then Seb licked his lips slowly. Jim nodded and bent low and kissed him hard.

When Jim released his hold on Seb’s jaw, he stood and draped the lead through the ring on the rock and set himself to rights.

A small bottle hit the sand beside Seb’s knee.

“Take those off and show me how much you missed me.”

Seb did as he was told, taking off the swimming trunks and returning to the spot, on his knees, thighs wide, sitting back on his heels, stroking himself to climax, but never taking his eyes from Jim’s.

Yours, yours, yours, his strokes said, and he may have even spoken the word aloud.

Jim nodded and occasionally let a breathy ‘good’ escape his lips, but for the most part, he simply watched.

When Seb had finished, Jim unhooked the lead from Seb’s collar and left the braid dangling in the ring in the rock. He removed his suit jacket and reached in the pocket. He pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. Then he pulled out something else.

“Time for a bit of exercise. But take it easy, yeah?”

It was a ball. Jim held it aloft then threw it toward the water.

Seb smiled. And fetched.

* * *

Seb was winded in no time, but it didn’t matter. He was happy.

“That’s enough, Tiger.” Jim was all smiles now. It was nice. He strode to a flat rock of waist height and leaned back against it. “Come.” Jim opened his trousers, produced the small bottle from his pocket, and drizzled the lubricant all over his half-hard prick. “Show me how much you missed me.”

Seb put a hand on the rock and wrapped the other around Jim’s prick. He gave no warm-up but started in pumping hard and fast.

He didn’t acknowledge Jim’s tiny gasp, but joy and pride bubbled up, nonetheless. He loved surprising Jim, giving him what he didn’t expect.

“That’s right, you brute,” said Jim, scraping his top teeth along Seb’s cheek. “Watching you splash about is enough make any prick stiff. But you better kiss me or I’m gonna feel cheap.”

Seb kissed him. And kissed him. And kept on kissing him long after Jim had spurt all over Seb’s fist.

“ _God, Seb_.”

Seb broke the kiss to nuzzle and lick at Jim’s neck, but the latter whined a protest.

“Not now, Tiger. After supper. You hungry?”

“Starved.”

“Finally worked up an appetite, eh?”

“The best kind.”

“Then let’s go back. Oh, you?”

Seb looked down at his prick and shrugged. “After dinner.”

* * *

Seb was interrupted in his gathering up of the beach things.

_Click!_

“Boss?”

Seb glanced down at the lead, frowned, then looked at Jim, who circled him and sat down in the beach chair that Seb was just about to fold up.

“Sit. Heel.”

Seb’s eyebrows rose as Jim opened his trousers.

“I know,” said Jim, looking what in anyone except the world’s only consulting criminal mastermind would have been sheepishness, “but I missed you.”

Seb sank to the ground, slotting himself between Jim’s legs.

“Gentle and sweet, Sebbie. Like I was that cute boy you sucked off after choir practice.”

“You _were_ that cute boy I sucked off after choir practice, Boss.”

“Hush. Or I won’t make the carbonara.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You haven’t coughed since breakfast,” observed Jim when all that remained of lunch was Seb’s large bowl of fruit salad.

Seb stopped eating and tilted his head to one side in contemplation. Then he nodded.

“Must be all that brine I’ve had coating the back of my throat,” he replied with a snicker and a wink in Jim’s direction. Then he resumed his attack on the cubes of pineapple, papaya, and melon.

With an air of formality, Jim pushed back from the table and stood. He moved to Seb’s side.

Seb abandoned the fruit once more, leaned back in his chair, and looked up, inquiringly.

Jim’s fingers were at Seb’s throat, and in a moment, the collar was gone.

Seb’s expression remained impassive, but he was not unaffected by the gesture.

So, it was like that, was it?

Jim went inside. When he returned, Seb’s bowl was empty.

Jim rubbed cream into the skin around Seb’s neck and asked, “Plans for the afternoon?”

Oh, yes, Seb had plans.

“Nap. Swim,” said Seb. He wasn’t going to rush this. He wanted Jim gagging for it before he started in on him.

“Sounds good,” said Jim in so casual a tone that anyone but Seb would’ve thought he meant it.

* * *

Seb stopped in the corner of the outdoor shower, the corner that Jim could see from where he stood at the edge of the terrace.

Though masked by sunglasses, Seb knew the green eyes were on him, so he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his swimming trunks and pulled them down and off and hung them on the wall. Then he turned on the water and gave the Boss a show.

He stretched and twisted, this way and that. He bent over and straightened himself. He rubbed his chest and arms and the back of his head with the pretense of rinsing off the sand and salt. He leaned back against the wall and cupped his prick—the water was far too cold for him to be hard—and fondled himself. He played with his balls and mock stroked himself.

And he did it all with his most wicked don’t-you-want-to-suck-me? smile on his lips.

He even danced around a bit.

When he thought Jim had had enough, Seb turned off the water. He dried himself with a towel and quickly made his way to the stone stairs leading up to the terrace.

The cushioned lounge chair was just where Seb wanted it, and the small bottle, too: it was within arm’s reach, on the table, beside Jim’s sunglasses.

Seb made lightning-quick work of Jim’s belt and trouser button and zip and pushed trouser and pants down. Then he shoved Jim face-first onto the lounge chair. It was awkward, Jim was hobbled, but Seb didn’t care. With two fingers, he gave Jim’s hole a perfunctory stretch and coating of lube, then he slicked himself generously and dived in.

“Fuck!”

Jim was as tight as he’d ever been—and just as sweet—really, there was no better fuck in the world, and Seb had sampled his share.

Seb’s arms snaked around Jim’s torso. His fingers, and Jim’s, worked on the buttons of Jim’s shirt. Seb slipped the garment off Jim’s shoulders and tossed it lightly towards the far side of the table. Then he ran two hands over Jim’s shoulders and arms and down Jim’s back, pressing the skin and massaging the muscle beneath. Then he held Jim’s hips and began to thrust in a nice, even rhythm.

God, he could fuck this arse for the rest of his life and die a happy man.

They didn’t, as a rule, do declarations, but Seb, nevertheless, gave into the urge to pull out and run his hands up Jim’s back, on either side of his spine, and extend himself, blanketing Jim’s body with his own, curling his limbs around Jim’s smaller form, essentially hiding Jim beneath him.

His fingers twined with Jim’s.

He covered Jim and held him down and licked at the shell of his ear. In the unspoken language of criminal masterminds and their right-hand assassins, it meant that Seb would protect Jim with his life for the rest of his days.

Jim turned his head away from Seb’s and spat,

“You absolute bastard!”

And that meant Jim loved Seb, too, forever and always.

The moment passed as suddenly as it had arrived, and Seb sprang up and went back to ploughing Jim’s hole. As soon as he came, he slipped down and jerked Jim’s trousers and pants off. Then he flipped Jim onto his back and swallowed his prick.

“Finally!” huffed Jim, not unlike a petulant teenager. Also, not unlike a petulant teenager, he came at once, decorating the back of Seb’s throat after only three hard sucks.

Seb held the come in his mouth. He shot up Jim’s body and, with two fists, grabbed Jim by the hair and yanked his head back. He forced the come into Jim’s mouth, then held a hand over Jim’s mouth until he swallowed.

Jim’s eyes were wild. “Filthy whore!” he growled when Seb released his hold.

“Says the bitch with the dripping hole,” replied Seb without a trace of rancor.

Jim calmed at once. “Tiger,” he purred and batted his eyelashes for good measure.

“Hold on,” said Seb, carefully extracting himself from the lounge chair. “Let me get some flannels. I want to play with your hole while we cuddle.”

“I don’t cuddle!” called Jim angrily, but they both knew that was a bold lie.

* * *

Jim turned his face up, and Seb kissed him, a long, wet, lazy kiss. Two of Seb’s fingers were working Jim’s hole loose and wide.

“Such a slut,” breathed Seb into Jim’s mouth.

Jim made a noise of agreement.

Seb caressed Jim’s shoulder and down his side, over the ridges of his ribs. Then he reached low and gave Jim’s very pale buttock a light, but very satisfying pop of a slap.  

“God, I want to turn that white arse pink,” said Seb. He kissed Jim again. “But I can’t decide: my hand or burn it with too much fucking under the sun? Or…”

“Both,” whispered Jim.

“God, yeah,” said Seb, excitedly. “Burn you good then spank you. Ooof! That’s gotta hurt, no?”

Jim hummed.

“You wouldn’t be able to sit comfortable, either,” continued Seb. “Yeah, that’s good.”

One corner of Jim’s mouth lifted. Seb looked down and brushed the side of his face with a cupped hand.

Their eyes met, and the exchange of glances was soft and gentle.

Then Jim opened his mouth. Seb put a finger over Jim’s lips to silence him.

“My parents were, in fact, married, Boss,” said Seb.

“So were mine.”

“To each other,” added Seb, with a knowing glance.

Jim smirked. “Well, you can’t have everything.”

“No,” agreed Seb. He pressed a chaste kiss to Jim’s cheek. “But I can have your tongue in my arse. Come on. On your knees with that pasty bottom saluting the sun.”

* * *

Seb reached back to rest a hand on Jim’s head, but it was just for show. Jim wasn’t going anywhere, and he would eat Seb’s arse for as long as Seb wanted.

“Balls.”

Jim rolled on his back. Seb knelt on the chair, straddling Jim’s face. He lowered himself slowly, dropping his balls to Jim’s open mouth. Jim sucked each in turn, then he began wiggling a whorish tongue along the strip of skin to Seb’s prick.

“Whaddya know? I’m already leaking. Such a hungry little cockslut. In my lap.”

* * *

“S-s-sebbie, Seb-b-bie, Sebbie-e-e!” stuttered Jim. He was bouncing in Jim’s lap, impaling himself over and over on Seb’s prick.

Seb pinned Jim’s hands to the arms of the chair. “That’s right. Now you keep going, but, no touching yourself yet. I’m going to let go, but you better keep your hands where I put them or you’ll be sorry.”

Jim whimpered.

“You see,” Seb’s hands encircled Jim’s neck, “I don’t need a collar. I got these.” He squeezed.

Jim gave a choked cry and threw his head back. His face was a mask of painted ecstasy.

Seb looked down over Jim’s shoulder and watched, with no little awe, as Jim’s prick spurt like a fountain.

“Well, that’s something,” he murmured. He dipped his fingertips in the mess, then he pinched Jim’s nipples and rolled the nubs between thumb and forefinger. “Now who’s filthy?” He bit the side of Jim’s neck. “Who’s come untouched?” he teased.

“Who hasn’t come at all, bastard?”

At that, Seb roped both arms around Jim, squeezing him with in a python-like grip and holding him fast.

What followed was a single, violent act: with his upper body, Seb jerked Jim down while, with his lower body, he rammed his own prick up.

Seb barely heard Jim’s chuckle. He was deaf and blind to everything but his own base pleasure. He snarled and bit and pissed streams of come into Jim. And he didn’t release his grip on Jim until the very last drop was wrung from him.

When Seb finally came back to himself, he sighed and began to lick at his own markings on Jim’s skin. But he wasn’t sorry, not in the least. Since the very first time he’d caught Jim gazing into a mirror at one of his bruises, Seb knew that he would never be able to pen a better love letter.

Seb reached out his hands, and Jim grasped them, steadying himself as he pulled off Seb’s prick.

Jim stood, hands on hips, looking over his shoulder while Seb poked an idle finger between Jim’s buttocks.

“Filthy,” observed Seb, of the hole, just starting to ooze, and the drying ejaculate on Jim’s front.

Jim hummed, then said in a breathy, affected voice. “So, what are you going to do about it, stud?”

Seb responded by leaping up, throwing Jim over his shoulder, grabbing the large beach towel, and heading for the stairs.

* * *

They swam. At a sprint, Jim was, in fact, a stronger swimmer than Seb. They splashed in the waves. They wrestled. Then Jim crawled to the towel on hands and knees.

Seb fell atop him and dragged his tongue along Jim’s skin, from shoulder blades to nape.

“I’m going to lick you—”

Jim shook his head. “Prick,” he insisted.

In an instant, Seb was under Jim, propping himself up on his forearms, looking down as Jim sucked his prick.

Jim’s arse was in the air, and the sun was high.

Seb grinned.

Perfect.

But maybe not so perfect, Seb reconsidered, after a few moments.

He wanted to play with Jim’s arse. He wanted his mouth full of prick, too.

“Hey.”

He gently tapped Jim on the back of the head.

Jim look up, scowling, but with a faint glimmer of anxiety, woven in the scorn.

“Together?” suggested Seb in a tone so submissive that one corner of Jim’s mouth quivered.

The height difference meant they had to take turns, first Jim sucking Seb with his tight draws and a dangerous hint of teeth, and then Seb sucking Jim, but all the while, Seb got to play with Jim the way he liked.

Seb listened to the waves and birds and wind as he teased Jim’s hole and his thighs and his balls and the tender skin between prick and hole.

Then he felt it at the back of his throat.

Brine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
